His Uncle's Favorite (71 page)

Their clothes in great disorder, they rested together on the sofa, breathing heavily. “It has been eight hours since we made love; it is no wonder I missed you so much…”

She smiled at him, flustered. “I cannot believe how little shame we have…to make love on your desk; it is preposterous.”

“No, it is not; this is passion, my love. However, I remember how reluctant and embarrassed you were when it happened the first time.” He laughed.

“Oh, you should not laugh. I still remember that stormy night—with rain and thunder and lightning. I could not believe that you wished to do such a thing, and I only agreed because you caused me to lose my mind and my good sense. And I am still embarrassed…”

“But you must admit that the embarrassment means little compared to the final reward,” he answered, a mischievous smile on his face. He then kissed her hand and her forehead. “My passion for you knows no restraint, and I know sometimes I embarrass you with my insistence, but I hope I never forced my will on you. I would never want you to do anything against your wishes.”

“You know very well that I always welcome your attention and that my passion is no more restrained than yours. I love to feel your gazes, your touches, your caresses, your kisses; I love to know your passion overcomes your well-known self-restraint. But that does not eliminate the fact that sometimes I am embarrassed and uneasy with the things we do…and the places we do them. As it happened with the billiard room—you placed a settee there, and I am certain the entire staff guessed your reason for doing so.”

He laughed and kissed her hair again. “Forgive me, my love. Should I ask for the settee to be removed? I can do so immediately.”

She stared at him and hesitated briefly before replying with complete seriousness. “Well, the damage has already been done, so you might just as well leave it where it is.”

“Yes, I thought the same.” He laughed, covering her face with small kisses. “Now, Mrs. Darcy, you should try to fix your clothes as I am tempted to embarrass you again.”

A sudden, strong knock at the door interrupted their teasing conversation, but Darcy did not hurry to reply. She glanced at him inquiringly with amusement.

“Mr. Darcy!” Miles’s voice startled Elizabeth, and she looked at Darcy with worry. Since they married, Miles had never knocked on a locked door, let alone called his master.

“Go away, Miles.”

“Mr. Darcy, please sir—you are wanted in the drawing room,” Miles repeated, and Darcy finally rose from Elizabeth’s side.

“Someone had better have died, or else I will kill Miles,” he mumbled as he walked to the door, glancing at the mirror briefly to button his vest. He opened the door only enough to talk to Miles for a few moments then closed the door again and returned to Elizabeth, who was looking at him, half amused and half puzzled; he took her hands gently.

“You should go and change, my love. Lord Matlock is here; he seems to have some urgent news for us.”

***

A few minutes later, Elizabeth returned to the drawing room in a great hurry. She was pleased at the prospect of seeing the earl again, though she could not restrain her worry regarding the news he had so unexpectedly brought. She expected a happy, joyful reunion, and she stepped to the earl, her hands stretched to greet him.

“Lord Matlock! I am so happy to see you again!”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, kissing her hand politely. “You look more beautiful than ever.” His voice trembled slightly.

Darcy put his hands on her shoulders. “Elizabeth, Uncle brings us sad news. Please sit down, my dear.” She looked from one to the other, her eyes darkened with distress.

“George was murdered two nights ago. He was shot during a card game,” the earl said.

Elizabeth forgot to breathe, her fingers tightly gripping her husband’s hands.

“I am on my way to his regiment,” the earl continued. “I stopped briefly to inform you; I received news at Matlock Manor from his colonel early this morning and…I thought about sending news to Longbourn or to Mrs. Gardiner, but I know they are already on their way here. Robert and Thomas are in London, too. I must go now; it is late…”

“I will come with you, Uncle,” Darcy said decidedly. He turned his eyes to Elizabeth and spoke gently. “My love, I must go. We will bring Wickham home to bury him at Pemberley near his parents. We cannot leave him there among strangers.”

“Darcy, you cannot leave your wife alone; there is no need for you to come. I will take care of everything. I should not have sent him away alone; it is only my fault…”

Elizabeth squeezed her husband’s hand. “Do you think I should go, too? For Lydia?”

“By no means,” he said severely. “I cannot allow you to expose yourself to such a situation. We will take the best care of your sister, I promise. Besides, you must be here to receive our guest, we might not return in time for their arrival. Uncle, I will be ready in no time,” he said then hurried to prepare himself, leaving Elizabeth and the earl alone in the drawing room.

“I am so sorry, sir,” she said gently. “I know you were very fond of Mr. Wickham, and I can imagine how you must suffer. But you cannot possibly believe it was your fault.”

“Yes, I was very fond of him but it was for naught… He died alone in the street, I was told… Somebody shot him, alone in the dark…and it is my fault. Did Darcy not tell you?” At Elizabeth’s puzzled expression, he continued. “It seems he did not—I should have known that he would not betray a secret, not even to you. When he returns, please ask him… Tell him I said so… I am so tired, my dear, so very tired… “

Elizabeth looked at the earl, disconcerted; he seemed lost and incoherent. She could not comprehend his words, nor could she miss his pale countenance.

Darcy appeared with a small valise in his hand, his face dark and troubled. He embraced her tenderly, so tightly that she could barely breathe.

“You do understand why I must go… I do not want to leave you alone, but…”

“Of course, I understand. Please take care of Lydia…and his lordship; he is not well. Do not worry about me, my love. Pemberley is my home now; I am not alone here.”

“It is your home, indeed, beloved. I shall return in no time…”

Alone in the impressive drawing room, Elizabeth watched her husband leave with Lord Matlock. She clasped her hands to stop their trembling then ran upstairs to the balcony, following them with her gaze until they disappeared behind the hills. Only then did she begin to cry.

***

Darcy was gone for a full day, and Elizabeth had barely slept a few hours. She spent her time moving from one room to another, looking at the portraits in the gallery, trying to play the pianoforte for a few minutes, walking in the back garden among the spectacular rose bushes from which he brought her a fresh flower every day and visiting Spirit at the stables, but nothing could comfort her for his absence. Her happiness, so complete and perfect only a day before, was now crushed by the tragic death of George Wickham.

Mrs. Reynolds offered her warm support and care with the delicacy and discretion of an elder and wise aunt while Molly seemed to suffer together with her mistress.

Elizabeth, tired and confused, could not forget the earl’s words and troubled countenance, nor could she stop trying to guess the secret about the connection between the earl and his favourite. Her husband knew it but did not share it with her, which was easy to understand. He could not possibly betray his uncle’s trust—not even to her. Now he was allowed to tell her, but to what purpose? Mr. Wickham was gone forever, and nobody could help him. Did they make the wrong decision to purchase him a commission in Newcastle? Would things have been different if he had remained in Meryton?

And what about Lydia, a girl of fifteen who had been through so much distress in such a short time? What tragedy she must have suffered to have her husband dead less than two months after their wedding. Perhaps she should have gone with them to help Lydia. It could not possibly be worse than staying home alone with an ocean of tears.

Mr. Wickham’s death affected the entire Pemberley staff as most of them were acquainted with him. It was the general opinion that Mr. Wickham’s behaviour had always been reckless and frequently dishonourable—and turned even wilder in the last years. But the memories of a child with a bright smile and blonde hair, running along Pemberley’s paths, were still vivid in the minds of the eldest, and they could not remain untouched by his fate, so Mrs. Reynolds said, her eyes tearful.

Though the precise time was still uncertain, Darcy had decided that George Wickham would be buried at Pemberley, so Elizabeth took it as her duty to have all the arrangements made. With the precious help of Mrs. Reynolds and Miles, the parson was invited to discuss the sad event, and everything was settled properly.

It was the most painful coincidence that, during the days when Pemberley was prepared to receive all Mr. Darcy’s extended family, George Wickham would leave it forever.

By the second evening of Darcy’s departure, Elizabeth’s distress overcame all her other feelings as well as her common sense. Sleeping was impossible even to consider and so was eating. She walked around the drawing room, moved to the library, to her rooms, then to the library again, her restless steps breaking the silence of the house. Then finally, she asked for Molly to help her prepare for the night. The next afternoon, her family was expected, and what was happily anticipated was now a reason for worry and deep distress. She could only imagine and fear her mother’s reaction at such dreadful news. She must handle such a difficult situation properly, so she must try to rest, at least a little.

The night was dark and warm, the stars shadowed by heavy clouds. A gentle breeze blew through the curtain, disturbing Elizabeth’s restless sleep. She turned from one side to another and the sheets tightened around her, her mind twisted by frightening thoughts; light, followed by deafening thunder, awoke Elizabeth while a shiver froze her spine. She looked around disconcerted, and her heart skipped a beat—first of dread then of happiness. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, her husband was watching her protectively, tenderly. She threw herself into his arms, and he gently caressed her hair.

“I am so happy you are back! How are you? Where is Lydia—is she well? And the earl? How are you, my love?”

“Dearest, you should not get too close to me; I am filthy. A maid is already taking care of Lydia; she was offered a room in the guest wing. She must bathe and eat something; Mrs. Reynolds is in charge of everything.”

“Oh, I will go to her. And Lord Matlock? And…Mr. Wickham?” she inquired tentatively.

“The coffin was placed in the chapel. We will have the funeral tomorrow morning; it will be dawn soon. Mrs. Reynolds told me you already had everything settled; I thank you. And she told me you have not slept in two nights. You must be exhausted.”

“My love, it seems quite unfair to worry about my fatigue…and please do not thank me. Mrs. Reynolds and Miles deserve all the credit. I will go to Lydia now… But, William…where is Lord Matlock?”

He hesitated a moment, his countenance dark. “He is in the chapel. He said he could not leave George alone. I tried to convince him otherwise, but I doubt he even heard me.”

She caressed his face with both hands. “My love, you did everything you could. You should bathe and eat something while I take care of Lydia. Then we will go to the chapel…to pray together. We cannot leave Lord Matlock alone.”

He put his arms around her and kissed her forehead in approval, and she lingered in his arms a little then reluctantly left. She entered her sister’s room, worried about her present state, and a moment later, she was startled by Lydia’s loud wails.

“Oh, Lizzy, I am so glad to see you! Did you hear my dear George was killed? I am going to lose my mind; what should I do now? How can I be a widow at fifteen? Oh, you have such a beautiful house—you were so clever to marry Mr. Darcy, though George was your favourite first! Look at this expensive furniture—I never saw anything like that. Poor George always said how beautiful Pemberley is. How could Mr. Darcy have been so cruel, so mean to him? If Mr. Darcy had given him the living, my dear George would not be dead now! What should I do now, Lizzy? I will have to wear black forever!”

Elizabeth turned pale, glancing at the maid and Mrs. Reynolds who were busy preparing Lydia’s bath. She gently embraced her sister, trying to excuse her unfair accusations.

“Lydia, you must take a warm bath and eat something then rest a little. Mr. Darcy and I will go to the chapel; Lord Matlock is already there. Do you wish to come with us?”

“Oh, I could not possibly do that, Lizzy. I must sleep—the journey was horrible! I could not rest since I found what happened to my poor George!”

“Mrs. Darcy, I prepared a special tea for Mrs. Wickham; it will help calm her. I think she should not leave her bed for the time being,” Mrs. Reynolds said gently.

Elizabeth nodded in approval, her head spinning from ire and distress at her sister’s thoughtless words; she struggled to comfort and calm Lydia, who was savouring her tea and food and continued to wail about how her George was harshly treated by Mr. Darcy and Lord Matlock—who forced him to move to Newcastle—then repeated three times that she would be forced to wear black, which was very unbecoming to her complexion, and that she would miss all the balls for the rest of the year.